Leisha Chaga is a medicine of paradox. It hides for decades in the heart of a tree, unseen and unnoticed, and then suddenly bursts outward in a rugged black form that looks more like charred wood than mushroom. It grows slowly, deliberately, intimately intertwined with its host, offering itself as both healer and teacher. Known as the King of Mushrooms, chaga has a long history of use in northern cultures and is now celebrated worldwide for its extraordinary healing gifts.
My own relationship with chaga began in Canada, where it grew on the birch trees of my property. I used to walk through the forest and spot its dark, crusted form pushing out from the smooth bark of white birch. At first glance, it did not look like medicine at all. People unfamiliar with fungi might even mistake it for a wound or a burned patch of bark. But once I learned what it was, and how deeply it was revered, I could never pass a birch without looking. Today, although I live in Ecuador, I still keep chaga close. You will not find it here, as the climate and ecosystems are too different and the birch trees it loves do not grow in these latitudes. But my sister still lives on our Canadian property, and with her help, I propagate and bring it here. In that way, the chaga carries both family and forest with it, a link between the northern woods and the fertile Andean soil where I now live and work.
Chaga is not a mushroom in the conventional sense. What we harvest is not the fruiting body but a dense, blackened mass called a sclerotium. Inside, the chaga is golden and corky, while outside it looks burnt and cracked. This is the visible manifestation of a process that has been going on inside the tree for decades. Chaga begins as spores that enter through a wound in the bark of a birch or other hardwood. Then it grows quietly within the heartwood, often for ten, twenty, or even thirty years, slowly integrating with the tree’s tissues. It only emerges to the surface when it has reached maturity, breaking through the bark to form the rough exterior we recognize. By the time we see it, it has been living in deep relationship with its host for most of that tree’s life. This long, hidden growth is what gives chaga its extraordinary concentration of compounds. Over decades, it gathers betulinic acid from the birch, accumulates antioxidants, and develops a vast array of polysaccharides and medicinal constituents. It is as if the years of waiting and slow growth are condensed into medicine, stored in every fiber of its being.
Chaga has earned its title as the King of Mushrooms. Few natural substances can match its antioxidant content. It has one of the highest ORAC scores ever recorded, demonstrating its unparalleled power to protect the body from oxidative stress. These compounds support the body in preventing damage at the root of aging and chronic disease. But chaga’s kingship is not only chemical. It embodies patience, endurance, and quiet strength. To live hidden within a tree for decades, to emerge slowly, to withstand freezing northern winters and hot summers, and to condense life force into dense medicine makes chaga a ruler of resilience.
In Siberia, Russia, Finland, and Indigenous North American traditions, chaga was revered as food and medicine. It was brewed daily as tea to support vitality, strengthen immunity, and assist in recovery from illness. It was called upon as medicine for infections, cancers, and digestive troubles. Its reputation was both practical and spiritual. People saw it as a gift of the birch, a treasure of the forest, a force that strengthened both body and soul. I have it on my window sill infusing in water, constantly, to add to my coffee. He is bitter and astringent.
Today, however, chaga faces a tragedy. As global demand has grown, harvesting has intensified. Chaga takes decades to form, and when it is cut too aggressively, it often does not regrow. Unsustainable harvesting practices are stripping forests of their medicine faster than nature can replenish it. Where chaga was once abundant, it is now becoming rare. This is not only a loss of a potent healer but also a loss of relationship. Chaga belongs to the forest as much as it belongs to us. To take it without care or reciprocity is to dishonor the slow decades of its creation.
When harvested respectfully, leaving part of the sclerotium behind, chaga can continue its life with the tree. But in commercial operations, often the entire mass is taken, ending its cycle completely. This short-sightedness is a danger not only to the mushroom but to the balance of the ecosystems that have coevolved with it. The decline of chaga reminds us that true medicine requires not only knowledge of its use but wisdom in its stewardship.
Working with chaga also requires an understanding of extraction. Its compounds are complex, and no single method will draw out everything it has to offer. Traditionally, multiple methods were used, and for good reason. Some of chaga’s medicine is water-soluble, some acid-soluble, and some alcohol-soluble. Only by combining these do we receive its full spectrum.
Water extraction, through infusion or long decoction, draws out the polysaccharides such as beta-glucans. These are the immune-modulating compounds that strengthen resilience, reduce inflammation, and enhance the body’s ability to fight infection. A long simmer extracts these sugars, creating the classic chaga tea, which is earthy, slightly sweet, and grounding. Drinking it feels like drinking the forest itself, dark and restorative.
Vinegar extraction works differently. Acids are excellent at pulling out minerals and some polyphenols. I often prefer banana vinegar for this, as it adds its own richness of compounds, including potassium and organic acids, which assist in mineral extraction and digestion. Banana vinegar also carries the resonance of tropical abundance, marrying the gifts of the North with those of the South. Vinegar extractions are particularly good for supporting bones, connective tissue, and mineral balance, capturing a different side of chaga’s potential.
Alcohol extraction is essential for chaga’s triterpenes, such as betulin and betulinic acid. These compounds are fat-soluble and do not release into water or vinegar. They are among chaga’s strongest medicinal constituents, studied for their antiviral, anti-inflammatory, and anticancer properties. A tincture captures these elements and preserves them long-term. Without alcohol, this side of chaga’s power remains locked within.
When the three extractions are brought together, we receive the whole medicine. Water for polysaccharides, vinegar for minerals, alcohol for triterpenes. This triple extraction is a way of honoring chaga’s complexity and refusing to simplify it. Chaga, like the forest it comes from, cannot be reduced to a single element. It is the interplay of many forces, many years, and many compounds.
Here in Ecuador, where chaga does not grow, I weave it into my daily life through what I have brought here with me from my old land. Blending coffee with chaga and other herbs, it becomes something different like a tonic rather than a strain. Chaga adds depth, earthiness, and richness. It grounds the brew and transforms the morning cup into medicine. Combined with roots like dandelion and chicory, it makes a drink that supports digestion, nourishes immunity, and still carries the comfort of coffee. This way, chaga links my northern roots with my southern home. Each cup is a meeting place between birch forests and Andean gardens.
Chaga teaches as much through its presence as through its compounds. It teaches patience, reminding us that the most powerful medicine is not quick or flashy but slow and deep. It teaches resilience, showing how life can endure in the coldest conditions and still emerge with strength. It teaches reciprocity, because if we take without giving back, the medicine will disappear. These are lessons we need as much as its antioxidants and betulinic acid.
To drink chaga is to drink decades of quiet growth.
To work with chaga is to work with the unseen, the hidden processes that prepare us for resilience.
Healing, like chaga, often takes place where no one can see it, until suddenly it breaks through. There is a dear person in my life who I know, if she got to know Chaga, it would be great medicine for reconciliation. I wait.
For me, chaga is not only a supplement or a tincture. It is a relationship with the forest I once lived in, with my sister who still lives there, with the birch trees that held this medicine for so long.
To be able to bring it here, to use it in my blends and offer it to others, is to continue that relationship. It is a way of honoring both my past and my present, both Canada and Ecuador.
Chaga is truly the King of Mushrooms, as R not because it dominates, but because it integrates. It does not stand above the forest but within it. Its power is not in rapid fruiting but in quiet endurance. Its gift is not just compounds but wisdom. In an age where everything is rushed and consumed, chaga insists on slowness, patience, and reciprocity.
It saddens me that chaga is becoming rare, yet it also calls us to rise to the responsibility of its protection. To harvest carefully, to share wisely, and to remember that we are not separate from the forests that give us medicine.
In the end, chaga’s greatest teaching may be that healing is not about conquering disease but about entering into deeper relationship with the body, our experiences and with the land. I must add also with time itself.
